


Brothers in Arms

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arm Wrestling, Brothers, Competition, Cousins, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Gen, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Years of the Trees.  At a Family Reunion party, Feanor's children take it upon themselves to set up a competition between him and his brother, Fingolfin.  Finarfin tries to be helpful.  Tries is the operative word. Happy ending fluff.  Bunniverse compatible standalone story. Written for B2MEM 2021.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finarfin | Arafinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month (B2MEM) 2021





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Thank yous to Smaug and to AnnEllspethRaven for the beta reads!
> 
> B2MEM 2021 Prompts
> 
> Daily Prompt 3/7/2021  
> “Feanor was the mightiest...Fingolfin was the strongest...Finarfin was the fairest…”
> 
> Bingo Card: Family Reunion  
> Sibling Rivalry  
> Son  
> Father  
> Uncle  
> Jokes  
> Daughter  
> Meal  
> Togetherness  
> Cousins  
> Love  
> Games

Some of the children of Finwë came to the Family Reunions for the fun and camaraderie. Some came for the chance to win the contests of skill and strength. Some came for the stories and the food. 

And then, there was Fëanáro.

Even he could not exactly explain why he felt it necessary to gather with the family every time he received one of the fancy embossed envelopes from his stepmother with the dates and expectations of the latest event. Once arrived, he spent most of his time waiting for it to be over, kept clear of most of the frivolities, and could often be seen drinking alone at the end of a wooden table under one of the brightly colored tents on the lawn. 

He was almost to this state now. Nerdanel was still there, and Ingoldo had invited himself to sit at their table. Ingoldo was not found to be terribly offensive, in Fëanáro’s mind. This brother seemed far more involved in the work at the plantation their father owned and less so in the happenings in the Court of Tirion. He was also deeply involved in the interests of his children, and for that, Fëanáro could find common ground for them to socialize. 

There had been a footrace and a sackrace and a three-legged race and at least four other such races that Indis had dreamed up, and from the cheering and hooting and sass-filled retorts he could sometimes hear his third son shouting at his half-cousins, Fëanáro assumed that Findekáno and Nerwen were winning the majority, if not all, of the competitions. This was confirmed when Tyelkormo jogged over, clasped Fëanáro’s shoulder, and said in a formal tone, “Avenge me, O father! For I have been slighted by the unfair rules of these unmerry games!”

“How are they unfair?” questioned Fëanáro as he swirled the liquid in his glass.

“Findekáno is a trained athlete, and though Nerwen is an amateur, she is still in greater form than the rest of us. They should be made to race against each other, not the rest of us,” Tyelkormo declared. 

“The point of it is not to win. The point is to spend time with your family and have fun,” admonished Fëanáro. “A hundred years from now, you will not even remember who won, let alone what competitions occurred.”

“I am glad you feel that way. You can come and compete against your brother in arm wrestling for fun, then.”

Fëanáro arched a brow. “Why would I do that?”

“We...might have--”

“Who is ‘we’?”

Tyelkormo cleared his throat. “Curufinwë and I.”

“Continue,” directed Fëanáro.

“Curufinwë and I might have challenged you against Uncle Ñolofinwë in arm wrestling.”

Fëanáro looked down in his glass. It was his third of the afternoon. “Did you now?”

“I mean, you are older. You can beat him, right? Just like Maitimo can beat Makalaurë, and he can beat me, and I can--”

“Tyelkormo?”

“Yes, sir?” 

“The reason Maitimo can best Makalaurë is because Maitimo is three hands higher than Makalaurë, and Makalaurë has longer arms and a sturdier build than you do, and so on.”

“But Findekáno can beat Turukáno, and Turukáno is much bigger than Findekáno is.”

“Findekáno is an outlier and should not be counted in these discussions,” said Fëanáro. 

“So, what you are telling me is that because you are short,” said Tyelkormo as Fëanáro narrowed his eyes, “your brother can beat you at arm wrestling. That makes no sense.”

“What if Ñolofinwë arm wrestles Maitimo, and Fëanáro, you can arm wrestle Findekáno,” suggested Ingoldo.

“Perfect! Thanks, Uncle Ingoldo!” Tyelkormo ran back in the direction of the group that was clearly awaiting his return.

Slowly, Fëanáro turned his head in Ingoldo’s direction. “Why would you do that to me?”

“Do what? It seems fair that way,” remarked Ingoldo.

“The apple does not fall that far from the tree, Ingoldo. Even Írissë can probably kick my ass in arm wrestling,” grumbled Fëanáro.

“Well...look at it this way,” said Ingoldo. “In a hundred years, no one will remember who won and who lost, or even that there was arm wrestling.”

Fëanáro glared down his nose and then turned to his wife. “I suppose you do not have some sudden emergency reason that we need to leave or at least remove ourselves from the entertainments here?”

“I am afraid not,” replied Nerdanel. “I wish you the best of luck--Tyelkormo returns,” she noted.

Indeed, Tyelkormo was jogging back again. He stopped a few feet from the table and shrugged. “I have some bad news.”

“No arm wrestling? A pity,” said Fëanáro with almost too much relief in his voice.

“Oh, actually, just not for Maitimo and Ñolofinwë. Maitimo injured his foot in one of the races and he said he is not up to the competition,” explained Tyelkormo.

“What does a hurt foot have to do with arm wrestling?” wondered Fëanáro.

“Not sure--but he said he cannot do it. But Findekáno is up for it--and remember, he just ran a half dozen races today, you have the advantage!” And Tyelkormo was off again.

“Do I?” Fëanáro did not look very certain of this as he glanced up at the group Tyelkormo returned to. Findekáno was pacing back and forth, cracking his knuckles. “Why do I come to these gatherings again?” wondered Fëanáro as he downed the rest of his drink. 

“Free alcohol?” wondered Nerdanel as Ingoldo said, “Chance to see your favorite brother?” obviously referring to himself. 

“Either of you want to cause a distraction for me? Help your husband or favorite brother out?” queried Fëanáro. He was getting up from his seat, glass abandoned on the table. “No? Nothing? Great. Feeling very loved here…”

As he marched dutifully in the direction of the group he suddenly heard Ingoldo shout to him. Unfortunately, so did the others crowded together. 

“What kind of distraction did you want, brother?!”

Fëanáro gave the group before him, mostly looking confused, a tight smile. He caught a glimpse of Findekáno, who was smirking as he stretched his arms. Fëanáro turned on his heel and signaled to Ingoldo with an affirmative hand gesture. “Thank you! Very good--no further assistance needed!” As Fëanáro came closer, he saw that a square table and two sturdy chairs had been brought under one of the tents, and Findekáno was seemingly making a show of stretching now. “So, I guess we are doing this,” mumbled Fëanáro as he came to the table.

“Father? Please--allow me.” 

Fëanáro turned to see Curufinwë rolling up his sleeves. “I can hold my own,” assured Fëanáro.

“Please. I insist. It was our fault--Tyelkormo and I--that we disrupted you. Please--I shall do battle with honor.”

On one hand, Fëanáro did not want to make it seem as if he was weak, but on the other, he really did not want to arm wrestle his nephew. Who would? Findekáno was in peak physical condition, and though he might not have been quite as broad shouldered or as tall as some of the rest of the family, he made up for what he lacked with sheer determination and drive. He was sizing up Curufinwë now, recalculating in his mind. Fëanáro decided not to give him more time than he had to do so. “Good luck, son.” Fëanáro clasped Curufinwë ’s shoulder, and then stepped back to observe.

It was a fierce competition. Each gained the upper hand several times, teeth gritted, red-faced with sweat on their brows. The cheering around them intensified as time went on, until finally, Findekáno was able to find a burst of energy that allowed him to bend Curufinwë ’s arm down. The men shook hands and congratulated each other. Fëanáro was about to tell his son that he was proud of him despite the outcome when he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

He spun around to find Ñolofinwë. “What say you, brother? Shall we have a contest?”

Fëanáro wanted to answer with “Aw, crap,” but instead plastered a smile on his face, reminded himself that he had the prettier wife, more sons, a better house, and a far better family dog, and so he answered, “Why not?”

Seated across from Ñolofinwë, Fëanáro belatedly wished he had taken a cue from his nephew. His back was tight and his hands were hastily flexed in preparation for the competition. If he failed, he could always blame his physical unpreparedness, no matter how unbecoming such excuses would sound. 

It was not to be. Lasting slightly less time than the competition between their sons, Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë both showed their prowess against the other. In the end, it was Fëanáro who managed to slam Ñolofinwë’s arm against the table. Such a cheer came up from Fëanáro’s sons that little else was heard for several minutes, and only when Indis rang a bell did everyone realize it was time for supper.

As everyone meandered in the direction of the house, Fëanáro hung back and waited for Ñolofinwë to gather up his jacket and gloves before he confronted him. “You did not have to let me win.”

“Hmm? No, certainly not, why would you think I did that?” questioned Ñolofinwë.

Fëanáro crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to think of a suitably spiteful retort. Instead, after noting that everyone else had retreated inside the estate, Fëanáro relaxed his arms and dug his hands into his pockets. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“No idea what you are talking about,” said Ñolofinwë innocently.

And then he winked.

“I saw that,” said Fëanáro.

“Saw what?” Ñolofinwë asked with a considerable amount of confusion in his voice.

But then he winked again.

“Honestly, you can stop. I know what you did,” Fëanáro confirmed.

Ñolofinwë continued to feign innocence. “Truly, there must be something in my eye.” He winked once more, but this time, his eyelid fluttered and he dug at the corner of his eye with the knuckle of his thumb. “Criminy, I think I got an eyelash in there now!” 

“Serves you right,” scolded Fëanáro, but he approached to help. “Here, bend down a little so I can see.” It only took a few seconds for Fëanáro to locate and expertly pluck the offending lash without so much as causing Ñolofinwë to flinch. “Better?”

“You are quite good at that.”

“Seven children--if only the worst they got in their eyes were eyelashes,” Fëanáro said. “There. Now we are even. Eyelash retrieval in exchange for a thrown arm wrestling match.”

“Thrown match? I thought we were over this. It was completely yours to win.”

And of course, Ñolofinwë winked again.

“Alright, now you are back to being annoying,” Fëanáro muttered as he walked away.

Ñolofinwë smiled, swung his jacket over his shoulder, and followed his older brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to connect with me beyond AO3? Keep up to date on my fics, life, the universe, and everything. Fall down the purple rabbit hole at https://discord.gg/CHqptmUnTp


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